


Midnight

by GabiOfTarth (HobbitatHogwarts)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Not AU, Smut, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:19:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitatHogwarts/pseuds/GabiOfTarth
Summary: "As they move around the hall, spinning and weaving through the other couples, his grip tightens, holding her steady. She can feel his heavy breathing against her neck, the warmth of his body close to hers."Cinderella inspired Jon/Dany first meeting (taking place sometime at the beginning of Season 7).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm one of the few people who loves the 2015 live action Cinderella, and so a Jon/Dany first meeting scene in that style was inevitable. Also i'm shitty at writing smut and dialogue, so I apologize for that. 
> 
> In case you were wondering (which I'm sure you weren't) the first song Dany dances to (in my mind) is "Meryton Townhall" by Dario Marianelli and the song that Jon and Dany dance to later is "Dance With Me" also by Dario Marianelli. Not really period appropriate but oh well. Also you can just set any Jonerys scene to "Truth" by Ramin Djawadi (obviously) and that does the trick.

Daenerys tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind her nearly frostbitten ear. She checks her gloved hand, satisfied when she doesn’t see any brown paint residue left behind. She wraps herself tighter in the unfamiliar heavy fur cloak. Even with the heavy garment, Winterfell is cold and harsh. Not for the first time she wonders if she shouldn’t have listened to Tyrion’s warnings about secretly coming to Winterfell. But she needs to see the King in the North. She must behold the Northern bastard that Tyrion speaks so highly of and decide where his allegiances might lie in the forthcoming war. So when her Unsullied scouts intercepted a raven, and they found out about the ball at Winterfell being held to celebrate the defeat of the Bolton’s, Daenerys did not hesitate before preparing her trip North. And with her painted hair, salvaged heavy fur clothes, and the entirety of the Northern houses bound to come to the ball, it wasn’t going to be difficult to blend in and observe. As she walks through the gates of Winterfell, fresh snow crunching beneath her feet, she looks up at the Stark banners of grey and white, the wolf howling. She bundles her coat around her tighter and continues into the Great Hall.

* * *

 The Hall is large, the tables cleared to make room for dancing. It is crowded, filled to the brim with rough Northern lords and their thin, pale ladies. The room is warm and jovial, torches and fires flickering around the Hall. A young lady comes up to her and offers to take her cloak. Daenerys hands it to her, along with her gloves. She gives the girl a once over and is satisfied. Not a slave.

As she moves farther into the hall there is chatter and laughter and to Daenerys’ surprise, the people who glance her come in, smile at her. There are even children running through people's legs and on the dance floor she can spot barely flowered girls dancing with handsome soldiers. Daenerys smiles, despite herself. Winterfell is warm and welcoming, so different from her cold, lonely life in Dragonstone. Part of her wishes she could relax and enjoy the happy atmosphere, but that is not why she is here. She sets her brow resolutely and examines the crowd.

As she does, a round faced squire approaches her tentatively and offers her a dance. She weighs her options and accepts; she’ll have a better view of the Hall from its centre. She takes the squire’s hand and they make their way onto the floor as a new dance is being set up. She joins the ladies on one side of the room as the squire stands with the men. The small string band nestled in the corner of the room starts playing and Dany moves forward with the northern ladies. For once she is grateful to her brother, that he forced her to learn all the Westerosi dances to improve her marriage chances. As the dance picks up pace, a traditional Northern dance involving spins and jumps and multiple partners, she scans her surrounding. Her eyes are naturally drawn to a head of bright red hair.

Her eyes fall on the girl's face and she knows that this is Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. Tyrion rarely speaks of his life before he became Daenerys’ advisor, but once, when they had both had too much to drink, he told her of his wife, the innocent looking but quietly fierce Sansa Stark. Daenerys has great respect for her and her climb to power, though it is also something to be feared and not trusted. Daenerys’ eyes follow Sansa as she walks to the other side of the room, towards a young crippled boy, who Daenerys surmises must be Brandon Stark. Sansa bends to pick up her brother’s blanket that has fallen on the floor. Suddenly a figure appears behind Bran’s wheelchair, placing a hand on the younger boy’s shoulders. Daenerys’ eyes moves to look at the figure and her breath catches in her throat.

Tyrion had told her of the noble, brooding, serious, King of the North. But he is none of those things tonight. He wears armour and a light fur cloak that barely cover his strong, broad physique. His long curly hair is tied at the nape of his neck, loose strands framing his face. And he is smiling, his eyes shining in the firelight as he laughs at something his sister says. Dany feels her heart beat faster, struggling to keep up with the dance as she watches the man. She can see why the Northerners like him, he has an approachable, but stern air about him. She forces herself to turn her focus back to the dance, she is behind a few steps and must keep up. But before she can do so, the Bastard King’s eyes raise to watch the dancing crowd and they immediately find hers. His smile fades, his movements stilling.

Daenerys diverts her eyes, her mind whirring, fearful that she has been found out. She forces herself to return the smile of the young squire boy she is dancing with, whilst also scanning the room for possible exits. As she continues the dance, twisting and turning, she’s painfully aware of the King of the North’s dark intense eyes on her. The music comes to an end and she bows her head to the squire, refusing to curtsy; she is a Queen after all.

As the crowd of Northerners clap for the band, she turns to make her way off the dance floor and find somewhere inconspicuous and out of view where she can continue  observing. She looks up and stops in her tracks.

“Lord Snow.”

Jon Snow stands in front of her, blocking her way. She drops into a deep curtsy in an attempt to hide her face, and quietly chastises herself for bending the knee. As she dips to the ground, she assesses her next move. There’s enough fire in the hall to be used as an escape, but she doesn’t know if she is fast enough to reach one of the torches before she would be stopped. She begins to rise from the curtsy, unsure what to expect, but prepared. As her eyes meet his again however, she notices his eyes get darker, his mouth slightly agape. Oh.

“My lady, can I have the honour of the next dance?” His voice is deep, but kind, and he stumbles on his words, visibly nervous. She bobs her head slightly in a nod and resumes her spot with the other Northern ladies, lightheaded as she reassesses the complete change in situation. Jon walks past her to the line of lords and they stand opposite each other. The music starts, a slower song, and they step towards one another.

He is less imposing up close, his face softened by the torchlight. And now that the immediate danger is gone, Daenerys cannot help but admit he is handsome. She takes in his set jaw, the bob of his throat, his broad shoulders. He takes her waist and goosebumps form on the skin under her dress. As they move around the hall, spinning and weaving through the other couples, his grip tightens, holding her steady. She can feel his heavy breathing against her neck, the warmth of his body close to hers. They separate, as the dance demands, and she lets out a shallow breath, unexpectedly missing the contact.

She doesn’t even glance at her new partner, her eyes following Lord Snow as he dances with his sister. As Dany turns, she notices his eyes raking up her body. She feels colour rush to her cheeks. Then the crowd obstructs her view of him, and she takes a pause to compose herself and refocus her mind. She is here to gain information on her possible enemies, not be distracted by the attractive King in the North. She sets her jaw, resolute in her plan. As her partner returns her to the centre of the room, she is reunited with Jon again. His hand returns to her waist, and her firm resolutions and plans depart from her mind as fast as they were formed.

His grip on her waist tightens and despite herself, Daenerys feels warmth pool between her legs. They sway back and forth, neither of them paying much attention to the dance anymore. His look is one of pure desire and she knows her face must not be too different. He takes a step closer to her, stopping their movement. Her breath hitches.

“Who are you?” He asks, breathlessly. The music ends, the couples around them bowing to each other and turning to clap for the band. Daenerys and Jon break eye contact, noticing the end of the dance around them. She looks around her, her surroundings slightly hazy around the edge as she regains her breath. She turns back to Jon whose dark eyes have not left her face.

“Come with me.” he says, and takes her arm, pulling her through the crowd. They escape through the hall doors and into the deserted hallways. The quiet envelops them, heavy after all the noise. There is a pause, his hand still gripping her arm. She looks up at him, her eyes raising in question and he pulls her towards his mouth, kissing her firmly.

She relaxes immediately, kissing him back, taking in the taste of his mouth; mulled wine and something muskier. He steps forward, pushing her backwards until her back hits the hard stone wall. This is not how the night was supposed to go and she’ll probably regret this later but it’s been so long since she’s allowed herself something she wanted, and by the Gods she wants this man. He lets go of her arm and she wraps them around his neck, her hand going to his beautiful curly hair. His hand finds her waist again as he continues to kiss her. She runs her tongue along his lips and he lets her in, a low groan coming from his mouth. The sound surprises both of them and he pulls back startled.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what's come over me.” He starts to move away, taking a step back, but Daenerys holds him in place, her arms still around his neck. He relaxes a bit when he sees she is not angry, but doesn’t let his guard completely down. “I’ve never seen you at Winterfell before. I don’t even know your name.” His voice comes out low and breathless, his eyes raking over her face.

“A lady can’t have some secrets?” She answers, a coy smile coming to her face. He smiles at that, his head bowing.

“Secrets aren’t wise during the War.” His voice grows suddenly serious, and he moves back a step to look at her, a hint of suspicion overcrowding his desire. She knows she must act quick.

“I’m from the Vale. I’m with the army as a nurse. I’ve been stationed with their camp outside the castle.” She hopes it’s enough to cover her tracks, even the best commander cannot know everyone in his battalion. She holds her breath waiting for his response. Thankfully he nods, seeming to accept her answer. He moves closer to her, and she lets out a surprised breath when she feels his need for her pressed against her thigh.

“And what’s your name, Valemen?” he asks. His eyes are dark, his mouth close to hers.

“You can call me Dany.” she says, incapable of thinking clearly enough to come up with a false name.

“Dany.” He contemplates, and Daenerys worries she’s given herself away. “That’s a nice name, Dany.” He smiles at her and she smiles back, relieved. He leans down and kisses her again. This time it’s less urgent, more heated. He pushes her farther into the wall, as his hand moves to her lower back, hand splayed while the other holds her face. They are pressed so close together that she can feel his heartbeat through his vest, and she is certain he must smell the desire on her. He moves his mouth from hers, and before she can complain he begins kissing a path down to her neck.

“Won’t they miss you at the dance?” She asks, heart pounding, voice breathless.

“Maybe, but let’s not go back yet.” He says, and his hand comes up to trace the fabric covering her breast. Her breath hitches as his fingers brush over her tit. As his hand continues to palm at her breast she lets out a sigh and she can feel him grow harder against her. She grabs hold of his shoulders and flips them around, so he is pressed against the wall.

He chuckles, her small frame barely trapping him, but his chuckle fades as her hand presses against his clothed length. His mouth goes slack, his breathing coming quicker. Daenerys looks up at him through her lashes and he groans, pulling her towards his mouth. As his tongue brushes against hers, his teeth biting her lower lip slightly, she slips her hand into his breeches and wraps her slender fingers around him. She strokes him, his breath catching. She continues, trying and failing to focus on her task as well as she would like, with his lips biting love marks into her neck. She runs her hand across his tip and he growls, pulling away from her.

His eyes are wild, his hair untied. Dany can’t remember when she did that. He holds his hand out and she takes it eagerly. He leads her through the winding stone halls of Winterfell. Daenerys has enough mind power left to vaguely look around her, but she doesn’t see anything that could help her in a War, just a cold, dark, and yet somehow welcoming home. He opens a door, to what she assumes is his room and she follows him in. He closes the door behind her as they stare at one another, both waiting for what comes next. 

He moves first and backs her up against the door. She goes to touch him again, but he grabs her wrist, stopping her. Instead he gives her a smirk, and drops to his knees in front of her, looking up at her with those enticing eyes. He lifts her dress, bunching the skirts as his head disappears under the fabric. Daenerys feels his hand grip her thigh, the other holding the back of her knee to keep her steady. And then his tongue darts against her centre and she can’t hold back the low moan that escapes her throat. His grip on her thigh tightens as he traces her with his tongue again, longer and slower this time. She shudders as he continues, her hand grasping the carvings in the wood door for support, her chest heaving. He picks up his pace, never easing up, and Daenerys wonders when he’s finding time to breathe. Just as she thinks she cannot take anymore, Jon pushes her knee forward and places her leg over his shoulder. His tongue enters her, and she looks up to the heavens, her arousal unbearable. She moves the hand that isn’t keeping her upright and shakily undoes the clasps of her dress. After some struggling she releases the final clasp and the dress cascades to the floor.

The sight of the King of the North on his knees, his mouth pressed to her core, has her teetering on the edge. He looks up, startled as the fabric brushes against him and his eyes widen, his grip tightening on her, taking in her naked form. He moans and she comes undone around him, losing her grip on the door, hoping he can keep her upright. He does as he licks her clean, and as she watches him, Daenerys can already feel herself getting aroused again. He finishes, wiping the corners of his mouth on his sleeve before he stands slowly, his hands tracing her sides. His eyes come back up to meet hers and he moves forward to kiss her. But she pushes him backwards until his knees hit his bed and they fall into it.

* * *

 Daenerys waits until she hears Jon’s heavy breathing, signalling that he has fallen asleep. She untangles herself from his grip, quietly getting up from his bed. She looks out the window, noticing the moon is high in the sky. Midnight. She gathers her dress, still laying by the door, and quickly puts it back on. As she fastens the clasps, she looks around the room and takes one of the cloaks lying on a table. She knows she can’t risk going back to the Hall to get hers and she doesn't want to freeze on her journey back to Dragonstone. She passes a small mirror on a table and stops. She had forgotten about her brown hair. She runs a hand through it and looks down, startled when she sees some of the paint has come off. She pulls the cloak’s hood over her hair to hide it, and heads towards the door. With her hand on the doorknob, she looks back at Jon Snow's sleeping form, the rise and fall of his bare chest as he breathes, a peaceful look on his face. And she wishes, just for a brief moment, that she wasn’t Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. For a few seconds she wishes she was just Dany, Northern girl who could fall for the King in the North. She shakes her head, dispelling that dream and escapes out the door.

* * *

 Jon wakes, his eyes forcing open at the sound of a door closing. He goes to wrap his arm around Dany, and sits up abruptly. She isn’t there, the space beside him empty. He looks towards the closed door and jumps out of bed. He starts to follow after her, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it over himself. He needs her to stay, needs time to understand the feelings stronger than desire that he can feel growing inside him. As he brushes past the end of his bed he stops in his tracks, thoughts interrupted by something on the fur covers.

He leans down and picks up a strand of long white hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have Verdant_Melancholy to thank for Chapter 2, she gave me the idea of a second ball at Dragonstone. This one still has the Cinderella (2015) influence in some of the dialogue and the blue dress but there's also a bit of Pride and Prejudice in the big entrance scene. 
> 
> This takes place around 7x03, I'm diverging from the Season 7 timeline and plot points slightly so bare with me. Also not really but GOT SEASON 7 SPOILERS, just in case. 
> 
> I won't promise anything (because I'm terribly unreliable) but Chapter 3 is probable so look out for that. Thanks to everyone who commented (especially Verdant_Melancholy) for the kind words that pushed me to do more of this story that I really enjoy!

Daenerys didn’t take any joy in hosting a ball. They were expensive affairs and she didn’t really see the point in them. But Tyrion persuaded her, convincing her that a celebration would further unite their allies and boost morale. And they certainly had cause for celebrating. Casterly Rock had been taken, a sound defeat of the Lannister forces. They were one battle away from winning the War. And so she agreed to the whole affair, letting Tyrion prepare for it as he saw fit. She had more important things to concern herself with than selecting fine wines and deliberating over who should sit next to one another at the feast for the greatest political advantage.

And so it was no surprise when she enters her rooms to find a new silk dress of light blue laying across her bed. She absentmindedly runs her fingers over the expensive fabric. It reminds her of the dresses she wore as a girl in the Free Cities. Of course this was Tyrion’s work, probably to help persuade the heads of the great houses of Westeros to fall madly in love with her and pledge to their cause. She shakes her head and smiles to herself. Classic Tyrion.

Nevertheless, she puts on the dress, enjoying the fabrics soft touch on her skin. She removes the dragon pin holding her hair together, letting her long white hair fall around her. Daenerys moves towards her mirror and admires herself. It’s a beautiful dress. And it would do it’s job, it hugs her breasts, and accentuates her slim figure. She turns to admire the back of the dress, and her eyes fall on the chair beside the mirror.

Jon Snow’s heavy fur coat drapes over the chair. Daenerys walks forward and picks it up, feeling the fur beneath her touch, a reminder of that night almost a half year ago. She could have gotten rid of it by now, could have thrown it in the Narrow Seas on her journey back. But she couldn’t bring herself to, just as she can’t bring herself not to wear it to bed some nights, her fingers trailing to her centre, remembering the King in the North and his tongue. A knock comes at the door and she drops the cloak.

“Come in.” Missandei opens the door, she also dressed in a beautiful silk dress of gold. Daenerys smiles at her.

“Tyrion?” She asks, nodding her head towards the dress.

“He’s very kind.” Missandei says, her voice soft and gentle. “It’s time, Your Grace.” she says and Daenerys glances one last look in the mirror before following Missandei out, leaving the cloak on the floor.

* * *

The Dragonstone throne room, its walls usually cold and intimidating echo with joyful laughter and chatter. Lords, ladies, and representatives of the Great Houses of Westeros, united for Daenerys Targaryen’s cause, mill around, drinking wine and enjoying lighthearted music. Greyjoy captains, Tyrell bannermen, the Dornish sand princesses, even some Dothraki and Unsullied fill the throne room to the brim.

Daenerys watches them from her throne. She wishes she could join the crowd, but Tyrion continues to introduce her to Lord so-and-so and Knight this-or-that. She doesn’t pay much attention to his obvious attempts at finding her a good political marriage. Instead she watches the crowd, her subjects. She has to admit, Tyrion was right. Her people are happy, and she enjoys seeing them relax and indulge in pleasures for a night, even though she cannot bring herself to join in the merriment.

“Your Grace.” Daenerys turns back to look in front of her, her eyes blinking back to focus. Olenna Tyrell stands on the first step, bowing her head. Daenerys returns the gesture, one Queen to another. “My lord,” Olenna says, turning to Tyrion, “I must converse with our Queen.” She holds out her hand and Daenerys rises from her throne. She descends the few short steps, holding her dress in her hand so as to avoid falling and embarrassing herself. As she reaches Olenna, the old lady takes her arm to support herself and they begin to walk towards the far side of the room, Tyrion sputtering some unheard protest behind them

“What is it you wished to speak about Lady Tyrell?” Daenerys asks, helping Olenna into a chair in a corner away from the crowd. She takes a seat beside her. A Tyrell boy comes forward and pours them some wine.

“Nothing at all my dear. You looked miserable up there, I wanted to save you from your tiresome Hand.” Olenna smirks. Daenerys cannot help but smile as well, accepting the wine offered to her. She enjoys the company of the Queen of Thorns, taking to her council. And she knows Olenna enjoys her presence too, it reminding her of her granddaughter, Margaery. Daenerys’ eyes turn back to the crowd and her smile fades. She can feel Olenna’s piercing eyes on her.

“Why so serious child? This is a ball, you’re supposed to enjoy it.” Olenna says and Daenerys smiles again, her head bowing. She cannot explain to this old woman how it reminds her of all the balls held when she was a young girl so Viserys could try to sell her off, or how the War is looming and she can’t find it in herself to be overly joyous. Or maybe how seeing the happy faces, the crowd gathered, reminds her of the last ball she attended, of the King in the North, whom although she only knew for a few hours, she has thought about everyday.

Olenna looks at her, calculating. She turns back towards the crowd. “Dancing! We must have dancing.” She exclaims loudly and gestures towards the band. They stop in the middle of their song and fuss about, preparing for the next. “Here.” Olenna gives the Tyrell serving boy a shove towards a Meereen woman, as the music picks up. Olenna and Daenerys watch, amused as the hassle to find partners begin. Daenerys smiles slightly as she sees Missandei and Greyworm start to dance. As they watch on, Daenerys spots Yara Greyjoy approach them, her brother Theon trailing dutifully behind her. They both bow when they reach Daenerys.

“Lady Olenna, any chance I can interest you in a dance?” Yara holds out her hand, and her merciless playful eyes produce a laugh from the Queen of Thorns.

“No my dear, I’m afraid I’m far too old to be partaking in such frivolity.” Olenna says taking a drink of her wine. Yara nods and turns to Dany, hands behind her back.

“What about you, my Queen?”

Daenerys goes to answer but is interrupted at the loud groan of the Throne Room doors opening. A hush falls over the crowd, the dancing stopping. Daenerys stands, confused. The crowd around them thickens, the dancers moving away from the centre of the room. Daenerys pushes through the crowd, Yara and Theon following her. They push past some Dothraki to the front of the crowd as Daenerys’ eyes fall on the cause of the disturbance.

Daenerys wonders if maybe Olenna has poisoned her or perhaps she’s hit her head. Because standing at the entrance to the Throne Room is Jon Snow. Daenerys’ mouth can’t help but fall open. He looks much unchanged, his face still stern and intense. He’s wearing one of his big heavy cloaks, the grey Stark wolf stitched into his armour. His hair that she had once taken so much joy in dishevelling is longer and tucked neatly behind his head. Daenerys stares, unbelieving, her heart pounding. This must be a dream, another one of her vivid fantasies about the striking King in the North.

“Who’s that?” Yara whispers beside her, nodding her head to the person closest to them. Her voice snaps Daenerys from her thoughts, and she takes in Jon’s companions.

“Sansa Stark.” Theon says, beside them. Sansa seems much the same as well, still powerful and fierce looking. She wears a beautiful grey dress, her bold red hair flowing around her. Brandon Stark is not with them but beside Jon is a young girl, no older than fifteen.

“And what about the girl?” Yara asks.

“Arya.” Theon says it quietly, sounding as if he’s had the breath knocked out of him. Daenerys turns to look at him and she can tell he is shocked. Jon Snow’s youngest sister is curious looking. Arya Stark is dressed like the sell swords Daenerys knew in Braavos; dark clothes, her hair short and tied in a bun, a sword on her hip. She stands deathly still, her hands folded behind her back.

Daenerys’ eyes return to Jon, scanning the profile of his face. The three Stark children begin walking up to the throne. They pass Daenerys and she turns her face, but they do not look her way. They walk up the first few steps to the throne, where Tyrion stands to greet them. Daenerys watches from the crowd, unable to tear her eyes away from the back of Jon Snow’s head.

Tyrion walks forward and shakes Jon’s hand. He says something quietly that she cannot hear from where she is, but she sees Tyrion smiling at whatever it was.

“Sansa.” Tyrion says, approaching the lady who was once his wife. She hesitates before handing out her hand, and he holds it in both of his, kissing it. “I’m glad you could come.” She curtsies slightly at that, and they also share a smile. As Tyrion greets the youngest Stark girl, Daenerys pieces their situation together. Her and Tyrion had been discussing an alliance with the North but had never managed to get around to it, and so her Hand had invited them to extend the hand of friendship. She would have to congratulate him later on his achievement.

“Where is your Queen, the Mother of Dragons?” the youngest Stark girl asks, and Yara turns to look at Dany. Daenerys stills, her heart pounding in her chest. She takes a breath and steps forward into the middle of the room.

The look on Jon Snow’s face is enough to make her feel lightheaded again. His eyes open wide, his jaw going slack. She attempts to steady her breath as his eyes search her face, unbelieving. And then the look is gone as quick as it came. His face is set back in his stern frown, and she wonders if she imagined it in her head. As the crowd watches silently, Jon steps down the throne steps and begins walking toward her. The sound of his heavy boots on the stone floor echo around the room and she notices her uneven heart match their beat. He stops closer to her than is comfortable, and she can tell the room is tense, a few hands reaching for swords in the corner of her eye. Daenerys meets the stare of his dark eyes, searching for whether he knows or not. She’s had one more glass of wine than is wise and that look could have been nothing, a figment of her increasing imaginative mind. The silence stretches on as she waits for him to open his mouth and speak. But instead he bends the knee.

“Jon.” she hears Sansa say from across the room, and there’s muttering around the hall, but she doesn’t pay it much attention. She’s unsure how to proceed, her mind whirring.

“Queen Daenerys.” he says, and his rough voice saying her true name, like she had heard countless times in her dreams, has her heart beating faster. And then his eyes rise to meet hers and it’s unquestionable that he knows. His eyes glint, looking up at her in surprise and desire, and she can’t help but think about the last time he was in this position, what he was doing to her. As if having that exact same thought, he smirks slightly and she silently curses as her centre begins to drip with her arousal.

“Lord Snow. Thank you for venturing so far South.” she struggles to keep her voice steady, but luckily her Queen instincts kick in just in time for her to manage it. He stands, his eyes glancing down at her lips before they meet hers again. The silence in the hall stretches on, everyone staring. She tears her eyes from Jon and walks past him, towards the Stark girls.

“Lady Sansa.” She bows her head in greeting, and she sees Sansa struggle with what to do in response. The Lady of Winterfell responds with a shallow curtsy, her hands folded in front of her. “Lady Arya.” Arya doesn’t hesitate like her sister and pulls her small sword out from her belt and places the tip into the ground, kneeling. Daenerys smiles at her, bowing her head as well. “Welcome to Dragonstone.” her voice trails off as she turns to look back at Jon. He is staring, his eyes taking in her exposed shoulders, the hug of her dress on her rear, the curve of her breasts. His eyes are dark with desire. She swallows, biting her lip, and his eyes fall again to her lips. With great effort Daenerys physically forces herself to turn to her people.

“But we interrupted the dancing! Please continue.” There’s a pause but soon enough the band resumes, the couples returning to the dance floor. Daenerys turns back towards her throne, beginning to approach Tyrion, needing her Hand to steady her, needing time to decide how to proceed. However she is stopped as a hand lightly touches her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and turns.

Jon stands in front of her, hand extended.

“Your Grace.” he says. She knows she has duties to attend to, knows it would be rude and ungracious not to speak with Lady Stark but she has thought of this moment, of being touched by Jon Snow, for months. She places her hand in his and Jon steps closer, his hand snaking around her waist. And oh, how she missed this. They begin to spin, mixing with the crowd.

“It really is you. Dany.” Jon says and she can hear the insecurity in his voice, the powerful man gone.

“Just so.” she says, her voice small, no longer queenly. He looks at her, searching her face.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?”

“Would you have, in my place?”

“I looked for you.”

They’re both spewing words, trying to explain, trying to make sense of it all. They continue to twirl in silence. Daenerys, attempting to collect her thoughts, glances around her and notices Sansa and Tyrion watching them. She turns back to Jon. He cranes his neck to see what she’s looking at.

“We’re being watched.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back, her heart thudding in her chest. “Did you tell your Hand?” When she raises her brows in confusion, he continues, “About your spying trip up North?”

“He knew about the trip, but not what transpired. And if you care to know I didn’t learn anything useful from my spying.” she says, pretending to be indignant. He looks at her, his devilishly handsome smirk returning to his face.  

“Well, I guess I won't begrudge your spying then.” He laughs, and she can’t help but laugh as well. It’s the first time in a long time that she’s truly laughed. She feels content and happy and for once she’s not thinking about the War. His breath ghosts her neck and she feels dizzy. She looks up at him, clueing in to something he said.

“You looked for me?” she asks, looking up to meet his eyes. They’re dark and intense, like when he pushed her against the walls of Winterfell and kissed her breathless. That memory makes her stomach leap, like an excited child.

“Yes.” he says, and she can see him struggling to choose his words. “There was something about you.” she blushes. “I couldn’t get you out of my head.” he says, and she can tell he’s embarrassed.

“Nor could I.” she says and when he meets her eyes, there’s surprise written clear on his face. She watches as he smiles despite himself, his eyes bowing to hide it. Warmth spreads through her body, and whereas before it was arousal, it’s now affection and something deeper that, in this disorienting moment, she can’t place.

“Well obviously I couldn’t find you in the Valemen camp, and no one knew your name.” Jon continues, “Oh, and you left this behind.” He stops their dance, standing still in the middle of the dance, as he reaches into his breastplate. She follows the path of his hand as he pulls out a small leather pouch. He opens it and pulls something out. He holds a strand of her white hair in his palm. Daenerys’ lets out a shaky breath in surprise, her throat caught. He had kept that, like she had kept his cape for all those months. Her heart pounds in her chest. She looks up at him, and he’s staring back.

“How clumsy of me.” Daenerys says breathlessly, taking a step closer to him.

“I figured you were an imposter. But I never thought -” he trails off, his eyes falling again to her lips. Daenerys swallows, her throat dry.

“Your Grace.” Daenerys tenses, her mouth settling in a frown. She turns to look at Tyrion, her hands instinctively curled into fists. Her Hand looks at her, his brows raised. “Lady Arya would like a word.” Daenerys gives him a withering look. He straightens under her gaze, never one to back down from his Queen. “You shouldn’t neglect your other guests my Queen.” She forces a calming breath, and unfurls the nails digging into her palms. With a forced air of calm her hands come to fold in front of her.

“Of course.” she says. She turns back to Jon, her eyes finding his again. She makes a gut decision and takes a step towards him, moving her head close to his so they cannot be overheard. 

“The third room in the South passage, past the dragon statue. Midnight.” she says quietly. She looks back at him watching the realization dawn on him, his eyes widening, his throat bobbing. He bows, taking her hand in his and kissing it. A shiver runs down her spine as she nods her head, her eyes never wanting to leave his. But she turns and walks back towards her Hand, leaving the King of the North alone amidst the other dancers in the throne room. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but here's the new and final chapter! I apologize if it's lacking in smut, I was not feeling creative enough to write anything saucy (also I write this on slow days at work and there's only so far you can go surrounded by your co-workers). 
> 
> This one is vaguely Downton Abbey inspired, extra brownie points if you can spot where it is. There's also some Pride & Prejudice (2005) last scene in here. 
> 
> Hopefully you guys don't think this is total shit! Thanks for reading and commenting and being generally lovely.

Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, is pacing. She would usually never allow herself to do so, always the model of control and composure. But for the first time in a long time she is truly nervous. The gnawing knot in her stomach grips her tighter as she glances towards the door. Silence.

She marches to the other side of her room and pours herself some water from the jug left by Missandei. Her head pounds, muddled from too much drink. She had had glass after glass of wine at the ball, first to pass the time, and then after the arrival of the Starks, to hide her unrest from the other guests. And once the ball had ended, she had drank even more to quell her anticipation for the night ahead of her. But now she regrets it as the alcohol floods her thoughts with doubt. What if he does not come? What if he has changed his mind, or she had read too much into the situation to begin with?

A gust of cold wind blows through her open balcony doors and she shivers. Absentmindedly, she walks towards the balcony to close them, when her foot hits something on the floor. She stops. Bending down, she picks up Jon’s cloak, where she had left it earlier that night. And she cannot help herself but cry.

She is overwhelmed, shaken by all that had passed that night. She is furious at Tyrion for hiding his plans, furious at the other guests for keeping her from Jon, and furious at herself. She is allowing herself to indulge in weakness, to feel vulnerable as she hasn’t since she was a naive girl. But seeing Jon Snow again has pushed the feelings that have been brewing for months to the forefront. She has had infatuations and desires before, she had a husband that she cared for deeply. But this is more than that, a feeling stronger than she has ever known. When he walked into the seat of her birthplace, when he danced with her in front of her people, she felt as though she was complete, even though she hadn’t known she was incomplete to begin.

Suddenly dizzy, Daenerys wraps the cloak around her blue dress and stumbles towards the balcony. With her back against the wall she slides to the floor. Sitting on the cold stone floor, her hand traces the patterns that she has memorized on the cloak. She stares out at her kingdom, hot tears falling down her cheeks.

* * *

 Jon Snow approaches the third door in the south passage and stops. He hesitates, looking around him to be sure he is alone. His hand hangs suspended in the air for a moment, before he swallows his nerves and knocks softly at the door. The three headed dragon crest on the door stares back at him as the silence stretches on. When no answer comes after a minute, he knocks again, louder. Again, there is no answer. He looks around the hall again, unsure of what to do. He takes a deep breath before opening the door.

Jon walks into the Queen’s chambers, closing the door behind him, wary. The large bed is neatly made and here’s a small fire burning. Despite the size of the flames, the room is cold. Jon looks towards the open balcony doors and he feels his heart skips a beat.

Daenerys sits on the floor against the wall, head lulled to the side, asleep. He smiles, despite himself, as he watches the steady rise and fall of her body as she breathes. She is so small, and so beautiful. Jon cannot believe his luck that he found her, this woman that consumed his thoughts and being for countless months. He moves towards her and kneels beside her. He slides his arm under her knees, the other around her back and picks her up, careful not to disturb her. She is so light, so fragile. As he carries her across the room, something falls to the floor. He glances down and his mouth goes dry.

One of his cloaks lies on the floor. She had kept it, she had wore it. His heart beats even faster, biting his lip to stop it from trembling. He had been so afraid, consumed with worry that she did not feel as he does, that she only wanted him in her bed. But the cloak, still warm from her body, suggests otherwise.

He places her on the covers of her bed, pulling an extra blanket over her. As much as he would like to hold her and wake beside her, he won’t stay; he would never dare stay in a woman’s bed without her invitation. But he does allow himself to trace the curve of her cheek, his heart pounding at the feel of her warm breath against his hand. He forces himself to stand, ready to leave. But her cold hand suddenly grabs hold of his. He looks back down at her, surprised. Her eyes are still closed, her steady breathing unaltered. She sighs softly, shifting slightly in her sleep.

“Stay.” Daenerys says softly, and he finds he can’t refuse her. He removes his heavy boots, setting them beside the bed. He cautiously lies beside her, keeping a safe distance, but immediately she curls into him, head coming to rest in the crook of his neck. He stiffens, the soft press of her lips against his throat causing him to stiffen in other places. He steadies his breathing and places an arm around her. He knows he won't sleep. 

* * *

 Dany wakes, warm and content. She’s in her bed, though she doesn't remember going to sleep the night prior. Her head thuds faintly from the remaining effects of the wine. She isn’t in her normal sleep clothes, she’s wearing something silky and unfamiliar. Suddenly memories of the night before come back, the blue dress, the ball, Jon Snow. It must have all been an elaborate dream. She sits, her eyes opening, and stops. Her legs are tangled with another's and there are a pair of boots beside her bed. And as her eyes focus she sees the Stark wolf stitched into the leather boots. She turns, her mouth going agape. Jon Snow lies beside her, awake, and looking at her. Real. He smiles softly at her.

“How did I get here?” she says, her voice rough with sleep, heart pounding.

“You fell asleep on your balcony, I carried you.” he says. Of course. She remembers now. The cold wind, warm arms carrying her, asking him to stay. She relaxes, smiling back at him.

“What time is it?”

“Not yet morning.” he answers. His hand comes to her face, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. She watches him, her eyes fluttering closed as his hand comes to cup her face, his fingers brushing her lips. All very real. 

She falls back on her pillow, turning to face him. The hand that holds her face comes to rest on her lower back, pulling her closer to him. She rests her forehead against his, eyes closing.

“I thought for a moment perhaps you were a dream.” she whispers. Her hand caresses his cheek, traces the lines of his face.

“I’m very real, your Grace.” he replies. He takes her hand in his and places a kiss to her palm. His lips on her sends a shiver down her spine.

“You can call me Dany you know. You did so before.” she says, meaning to sound chastising, but instead it comes out breathless. 

“I didn’t know who you were before.” he says, continuing to press soft kisses to her hand.

“And what do you think of me now you do?” she asks warily. He stops his kisses and meets her eyes. A small defiant smile comes to his face.

“I was prepared to love a Valemen nurse, I think the rightful heir to the Iron Throne is a vast improvement.” He looks at her, his smile teasing, his eyes adoring. She smiles and hits his arm playfully. He grabs her arm and pulls her forward, kissing her deeply.

She lets out a surprised noise, but responds eagerly. He pulls her body closer to his so there is no space between them, and she can feel his desire, and she knows he can sense hers. He captures her lower lip and bites it lightly. She instinctively rolls her hips against his and he growls. She wants to keep going, would prefer to never stop, but she pulls back.

“Love?” she asks breathlessly, her lips red and swollen. He looks back at her, his mouth dry, swallowing as he struggles to speak.

“Yes. It might be unwise but I don’t seem to have any control over it, I haven’t since that night at Winterfell.” he says. Her heart beats so loudly in her chest, she’s sure everyone in Dragonstone can hear it. “Is that a problem?” he asks. She can tell he’s nervous waiting for her answer.

“Far from it.” she says and kisses him, her hand going to thread through his dark hair. He sighs in relief against her lips. He wraps his arms around her and she feels so safe, so loved. As he separates from the kiss to bite gently at her throat, Dany moans, grinding her hips against his again. Jon groans, his length growing harder against her. He continues to kiss down her neck down to the top of the blue dress. He pauses and Dany looks down at him, breathing heavily. He smirks up at her and rips open the front of the dress. She laughs, but her laughing stops in her throat as his lips come to her breast, his hand trailing to her centre. Her eyes flutter close, as his fingers brush over her clit, heat pooling in her stomach, face flushed. They have both forgotten about cold wind coming from the open doors. 

* * *

 Light spills into the Queen’s chambers, the sound of the waves hitting the shore mixing with the singing of the morning birds. Jon and Daenerys lie in bed, spent and happy. Her head rests on his chest and they look out her window, watching the sun rise in the horizon. His hand plays with her long white hair, a strand of which kept him searching until he found her. Jon’s cloak that Daenerys stole that night in Winterfell lays abandoned on the ground. She doesn't need it anymore, she has his arms around her, his seed inside her.

“How long will you stay?” she asks, her hand tracing patterns into his chest.

“A few weeks perhaps, I can't stay away from Winterfell too long.” his voice rumbles against her ear. She pauses, wondering how best to proceed. But she's made her decision.

“Would you stay, if I asked?” she says quietly. There’s a silence, Jon’s hand stilling.

“Are you ordering me, my Queen?” he asks, and she can hear he is upset, knows he has misunderstood.

“I’m not ordering you to do anything, I’m asking you to marry me.” she says, voice confident and sure. All of his movements still and she can no longer hear him breathing. He suddenly sits up, taking her with him. His eyes look into hers, questioning, unbelieving.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his brows knitted together.

“Maybe not right away. I’d like to know you better, and there’s a War to win.” she says. He looks at her as if he’s worried that any moment she will change her mind, that this has all been a dream. She places her hand on his cheek, hoping to drive those doubts away. “But fate has brought us together, despite every odd. And despite myself, I love you. I’m not going to marry anyone else.” She says shaking her head. His face breaks into a smile, and she thinks she sees tears in his eyes. He takes hold of her hand, lacing it with his. He leans forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Yes.” he says. He moves down, pressing another to her nose. She hears herself giggle, a sound she has not made since she was a girl.

“Yes.” he says again. He pauses, his breath ghosting her lips before moving forward and meeting her, their lips moving together.

“Yes.” he says.

* * *

 And if their family and friends notice them enter to breakfast together, they say nothing. If Tyrion notices the small glance his Queen gives the King of the North, he does not make any witty remarks. If Sansa and Olenna glances their hands brush as they serve themselves food, they don’t show any signs of it.

And as Jon takes a seat, uninvited, beside Daenerys at the head of the table, the room is quiet, as if this is always as it was meant to be.  


End file.
